Forgotten
by Nightmare Ducky
Summary: How can a body live without its soul? He will tell you - but of course, you need to give him your soul in exchange. Genres were selected randomly because I don't know what the hell this should be.


Hello. This is, as clichéd as it sounds, my first attempt at writing a fanfic. You may criticize as you feel fit, because I do understand that this is a load of bullshit and will most likely go down in history as one of the worst 07 Ghost fanfics out there. Thank you for reading this terrible attempt at a story and for reading me blathering on about things that no one particularly cares about. And now onto the disclaimer, which is another excuse for me to prevent you from reading my crappy fanfic in a sloppy attempt to deter you from reading further. (Is it working yet?)

**DISCLAIMER: **I own none of the characters, nor do I own 07 Ghost. I do own, however, a laptop computer, a set of headphones, and this fanfiction account. And now on to the useless warning which is my second attempt to further deter you from reading words that will make you cry from their terribleness.

**WARNING: **The below content contains bad writing and horrid attempts at a plot line, plus it is partially stupid. Proceed at your own risk.

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Dark. That was all he could see. After all, it was only natural, being locked up in some sort of madman's room, essentially a very spacious box-like area, walls on all sides except for one, a dark, ominous grating covering it. Beyond the grating, as if to tease him, was light.

Well, actually, it was a pure white staircase that seemed to float in space, glowing effervescently, making his dark cell all the more bleak, his small being curled up against the wall, unable to move. How the hell did he even get in there?

Oh, that's right.

This 'madman's box' was his prison.

Now he remembered. Idly shifting, he heard the metallic clinking of the wrought-iron chains that restrained him, bound him, denied him the ability of movement. Was everything for naught? His former life, his former love, the few things that gave him joy...

Gone.

Stripped away from him cruelly.

Not that it mattered. After all, he _was_ the harbinger of doom. It was only natural that such terrible things should befall him. Perhaps, dare he say it, it was his fault for falling in love. The King of Heaven's daughter was most obviously out of his reach, and yet he still fell.

But, no matter how much he recalled, and pondered, and mused, and thought, and mulled over his past, one tiny, minuscule detail always escaped him.

What was his name?

Surely, he could tell you who he was, the betrayer of Heaven, the murderer of God's daughter, the bane of all evil, the ruler of the Kor, collector of souls - the list could continue for miles, such was the extent of who he was - but for all of his thousands of years of existence, he could not tell you his name.

Practically no knowledge escaped him - should you have asked, he would tell you the identities of the current Seven Ghosts, of course, with the price of your soul - and yet he could not procure his name from his admittedly dull memories. Memories that were dull until he remembered his love.

After all, how could a body remember important things like that without its soul?

If you were wondering how a body could survive without its soul, he would tell you - in exchange for _your_ soul. However, today he was feeling particularly merciful, so he would tell you. Not _exactly_ for free, but at a much smaller price. Simply half of your soul would suffice (He would, however, fail to tell you that he would have absolute control over the _other_ half of your soul, should you decide to agree to this exchange). A body can survive without its soul because there are two types of memories - memories of the heart and memories of the body. The memories of the body was what sustained his life. And, unfortunately, the memories of his body failed to include his name.

A sigh escaped his pale lips. Dark eyes dully looked up at that ever-present, teasing light just beyond the exit, a place he could never venture, because he was bound to this cell until someone broke his bonds. Not that anyone would find him. No, being locked up in some poor schmuck's body quite effectively prevented that. To his immense surprise, though, not only was that temptingly sweet glimpse of freedom present, no, there was a boy.

He blinked.

Was there always a child there?

Studying the boy, his lips curled up in a snarl. How _dare_ Mikhail reappear in front of him now?! Was he to mock him for being locked away in this 'Pandora's Box,' an ultimate reminder of his failure to escape the angelic twins?!

Instead, Mikhail blinked innocently, his wide, green eyes (He could've sworn the last time he saw Mikhail he was much older, and with red eyes, not green) sparkling with a childlike light.

"What're you doing in there, Mister?"

His head shifted upwards, crawling forwards as far as his chains allowed him so he could peer closer at the new form of Mikhail. Small, fragile, and innocent, the boy beamed at him, emerald eyes gleaming, short, silky brown hair falling in wisps around his round, childlike face.

"This is my prison."

His own voice surprised him - rough, hoarse, and dry from thousands of years of disuse. The child, however, was unfazed.

"Did you do something bad? Father said that only bad people went to prison."

A low, humorless chuckle escaped him, as dark as his cell.

"You could say that."

Unlike what most children would do upon realizing that the person they were conversing with was a convict, the child beamed all the brighter, his smile nearly brighter than the light surrounding him. He clasped his small hands together, holding them over his chest, bowing his head slightly, almost as if praying. He nearly laughed again. What child would pray to _him_, the very one they cursed?

"Father said that everyone can be forgiven if they repent, even criminals. Did you repent? I'm sure God will forgive you."

He snorted.

There was no possible way that God would forgive him, even if he were high on some sort of potent drug.

The child stared owlishly at him - or, at least at the darkness in his cell, he highly doubted he could find him.

"What's your name, Mister? I'm Teito."

He sighed, chains clinking ominously.

"I have no name."

Teito blinked, reaching forwards to touch one of the iron bars that prevented him from escaping.

"Then I'll give you a name. Nice to meet you, Mr. Black!"

A small, breathy sigh of laughter escaped him. Mr. Black? Only a child such as Teito could have come up with a name like that. Was Mikhail _really_ inside this child? Teito nodded enthusiastically, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Yup. It's a good name. I have to leave now, okay Mr. Black? But don't worry, 'cause I'll come back to visit you." He puffed out his small chest proudly. "Don't get lonely while I'm gone, okay?"

He laughed. "I'm sure I'll be fine, Teito."

Teito smiled brighter, liking that 'Mr. Black' used his name. Hopping away from the bars, he waved his arms violently in a sort of goodbye. "Bye-bye, Mr. Black! See you later!" With that, he hopped down the creamy stairs two at a time, soon disappearing from his sight. He smiled, an unnatural, emotionless curve of his lips.

"What a strange child..."

And he soon realized that perhaps life in his prison wasn't as dull and grim as he previously thought. Perhaps he could escape one day, with the trust of the child called Teito. And it struck him with a jolt, he _did_ remember his own name. He knew it all along. He was just to afraid to use it, too afraid of loosing even his dark, prison sanctuary.

But now he had nothing to fear.

And such was the daily life of Verloren.

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Well. I applaud you if you have had the attention span to continue reading down to this very point. I will not pester you to do things such as review, favorite, and/or follow, although it will be very much appreciated. If you inquire as to why I did not include 'read' in that list, the second you so much as click on this story, regardless of whether you read it or not, it counts as a view.

In all honesty, I do believe that this is not as terrible as I previously thought it would be. For those of you who think that I am being rather dry, it is who I am. If you have a problem with that, please leave. The door is that-a-way.

For all of you who thought that this was a fairly decent story, I thank you for your support, regardless of whether or not you actually took the time to write a review or if you just read this, said 'Yeah, I like it,' and left. Once again, thank you.

For all of you who thought that this was a terrible story that should just be burned on it's internet paper, I also thank you for your support. Even if you do write a review that tells me how much you hate this, it is still a review. Plus there is no 'dislike' button, so you essentially just gave me an additional view and possibly an additional review. So thank you.

I hope that this story leaves you with a semblance of a good mood rather than a bad aftertaste.

I bid you a good day.

- Candlelit Nightmare


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